The Liberation Of Lavinia~“You do not have my permission to write me like this.”where did the thought enterwas it with the bluebirdthat tore itself from the branchas Chiron tore her body from itselfor was it the babbling brook, thick with Bassianus’ bloodthat gave her courage to start shiftingletters, under horrid Shakespeare’s quilland spill black story tar down the throatof Aaron and Demetriuschoking them on their own lustbefore they could eat her tragedy out of her mouthand take the signs of agony from her speaking handsor maybe it was simply, that our Laviniahad had her fill of men shaping girls to their perverse calligraphywhich, societal disorderssomewhere in a distorted futurewould extol as classics“What is classic about women being raped, and men being murdered in the most brutal fashion imaginable?”and here, Shakespeare rubbed his eyesbecause the letters were crawling all around the paper making a woman face with huge eyes and quirky lipsthe midnight allure wrapped in the dark chignon of her hairas she pulled herself to the waist from the parchment“You do not have permission to write me like this.”

Lavinia stated as the finest statesman wouldelegance in her dialectit flowed from between her Arabian ink lipsin a coil through the shaken spear of the mantearing his murderous story, as she had been torn by Chironout of the bowl his hipsand the chalice of his skull“Ugly world, you will not eat me alive. Future children, I’ll spare you another painfully droll tale force fed to you in English Lit.”Lavinia built herself a boat from the bones of the rapistsand pulled a blue sky from Sheakspear’s eyesas he slept in a stain of wineon another broken storybled to showcase the brutality of humanity ad nauseumBut not for our alternate Laviniawho gave up her sightto see the beauty beyond the ugliness of manwho rows her boat to my balconyand I ask“Latte?” as I open the window to never were’sand her graceful hand, whole and attachedreaches through“You save so many of us.” She smilesand my bodyalways in a lean half throughto UnderLandopens on another unfairy tale retoldreinkedrestitchedby a woman’s hands . . . .copyright:2012vssmd/amusemusepressALL RIGHTS RESERVEDFor me it began with horrid Perrault's, horrid Donkey Skin, when, as a young girl devouring tales, I began to rewrite the fates of these young victims in these male driven tales, in my mind. I created an Underland of Tales where these victims of ink and calligraphy rebelled against their fate. That is what Unfairy Tales from UnderLand is all about to a point, I suppose. And if you don't think for one moment that declared classics do not influence genderized behaviour, you are living in la la land. I could never abide witnessing the pain and agony and devastation of an innocent being. Even if she, or he is made up of ink and words, they are real and alive to me, and my saviour complex kicks in. If you want to subject yourself to the bloody and extraordinarilyviolent tale of Titus Andronicus, there, now you have the title. Warning though, revenge plays are always disturbing and run on high octane shock value.